The crisp white legal papers felt cold beneath my fingertips. Nia Hollis stood across my desk, her smile tight, a predatory gleam in her eyes as she watched me. The ink on the non-disclosure agreement was already dry.
“Just initial here, Ebony,” she said, her voice smooth, almost a purr. “Confirm receipt of the injunctions. Standard procedure for a project this sensitive.”
My stomach clenched. Nia was lying. This wasn’t standard. This was a cage.
But I forced my hand to steady. My grandmother’s bronze mirror sat on the corner of my desk, polished and silent, its surface reflecting a distorted sliver of the afternoon light. It had shown me the fire, shown me Nia, and now Nia was here, trying to muzzle me.
I picked up the pen. It was a firm pen, a corporate pen, meant for signing big deals and binding contracts. I initialed the intake receipt, my jaw tight. This wasn’t surrender. This was buying time.
“Excellent,” Nia said, retrieving the stack. Her smile widened, less forced now. “Glad we’re on the same page. No need for any… misunderstandings.”
She left, and the silence in my office felt heavier than before. The clock on my computer screen ticked slowly toward my lunch break.
Forty minutes later, I was on the subway, the rush of air a stark contrast to the oppressive quiet of the office. My mind raced, reviewing every detail of the vision, every tremor of fear. I needed an expert. Someone who could tell me if what I saw was even possible.
I found Marcus Dunbar sitting alone on a bench at the transfer station, exactly as I’d hoped. He was older, his face etched with lines, but his eyes were sharp. He had a faded municipal fire department baseball cap pulled low, and he was meticulously cleaning a pair of old binoculars.
I’d heard his name whispered in city planning circles — a legendary, if unconventional, retired arson investigator. Getting a formal meeting with him would take weeks. A chance encounter was my only shot.
I sat down a few feet away, pretending to engross myself in my phone.
“Beautiful old structures, those,” he mused, without looking up, gesturing vaguely towards the historic brick buildings visible from the platform. “Shame to see them go.”
My breath hitched. He was talking about *my* district.
I took a chance. “They certainly are,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual. “I work in historic preservation. We’re always trying to protect them.”
He finally looked at me, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Protection is one thing. Prevention is another.”
“What if a structure was… deliberately compromised?” I ventured, keeping my tone hypothetical. “Say, old wiring, but then… made worse? For insurance reasons?”
Marcus stopped polishing. He set the binoculars down. “Made worse how?”
“Overloaded circuits. Specific chemical accelerants hidden in less-trafficked areas. Near old, dry wood beams.” I listed the details from my terrifying vision. “Could someone make it look like an accidental electrical fire, but ensure it spreads fast and thoroughly?”
He leaned forward, his voice dropping. “Sure could. It’s called an ‘accelerated electrical’ signature. You start with existing vulnerabilities, then you exploit them. A little bit of controlled overload here, some strategically placed ignitable liquids there. You time it right, and poof. Perfect cover.”
My blood ran cold. The vision was real. The details I’d seen, the impossible speed of the inferno, the way the fire erupted from specific points – he was describing it precisely.
“You’re talking about arson,” I whispered, the word tasting like ash.
“I’m talking about a building that’s set to burn,” Marcus corrected, his gaze unwavering. “And if you know how to look, you can usually find the fuse before it blows.”
He confirmed it. Deliberate electrical vulnerabilities. Not just old wiring, but *manipulated* old wiring. The specific, calculated method of destruction was now clear.
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